


Claustrophobia

by ThoseFiveChicks



Category: Maggot Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:22:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThoseFiveChicks/pseuds/ThoseFiveChicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which stuff happens, Davey annoys some scientists, and slash is established.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Claustrophobia

Chainey could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen Davey frightened. In fact, should the whole ‘zombie’ thing decide to _really_ set in and be as annoyingly clichéd as possible, and should his fingers actually start falling off, he could probably _still_ count the number of times he’d seen Davey frightened on one hand. This was especially easy since the number of times he’d seen Davey scared of _anything_ was approximately equal to zero. Davey was just a burning torch of sheer confidence that absolutely _refused_ to go out no matter how much you stomped on it.

Chainey had been pretty sure that Davey’s record would remain untarnished until the end of time, or until someone got fed up with the bearer of the confidence torch and shot him in the head, the latter being far more likely.

He’d thought so. . . until today.

“Uh. . . Davey?”

It had started out as a totally normal day– which was to say, as completely abnormal as possible, but what was nevertheless the manner in which the two Awares were used to starting off their days. Davey had been up first, presumably eaten while Chainey was still passed out, and had then proceeded to wake Chainey with a rousing cry of, “Morning, fag! Rise and sparkle, Edward McHomo!” as he upended his hammock.

Davey had then wandered off to do “artist-y stuff” while Chainey warmed up the daily organ-donor package.  Sometimes, if Chainey woke up early, (which hardly ever happened except for once or twice) he’d just pretend to still be asleep while he listened to the sound of the microwave buzzing in the other room. Davey never called him on it, even though Chainey knew he could aways tell. To return the favor, Chainey would always feign surprise when Davey said he was going to go work on “stuff” just before Chainey reached the “kitchen.” The way that they stayed sane was by pretending it was an absolute coincidence that they were never in the same room while they were eating.

Next, Sam showed up to– tra-la-la!– take them to testing. Aaagain. It was sick how Chainey had gotten absolutely used to it by now, but there you go. Davey always kicked up a fuss, but that had less to do with the testing and more to do with Davey himself.

The doctor’s appointment– Chainey stubbornly refused to relinquish the shred of normalcy that the phrase boasted– had gone just about as smooth as normal. All the way from Davey’s examination room he could hear muffled curses and the sound of someone kicking a chair, but couldn’t figure out if it was Davey or the scientist. Probably Davey, although he would completely understand if it had been the scientist instead. Davey, he’d been told, was _not_ the funnest to try and examine. When Chainey had asked why he hated these things so much, Davey had muttered something about scientists being ‘psycho bitches’ and hadn’t said anything further. Chainey hadn’t asked again.

In contrast to the desperate struggle for control going on in the adjacent room, when the doctor had opened the door and seen Chainey she had instantly relaxed and, although he couldn’t be sure, let out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank goodness, it’s the nice one,” she’d muttered, blinking up at him through an exploded bun of frizzy brown hair, and the rest of the appointment was smooth sailing. Tests interspersed with tiny snippets of friendly dialogue.

“So, how’ve things been lately?”

Chainey watched as a needle was carefully slid into his arm, but other than a slight pressure he couldn’t feel a thing.

“Uh. . . good, I guess. Davey’s been teaching me to play soccer.”

Reflex testing with that weird rubber hammer. Chainey could never figure out if his reactions were normal or not, mostly due to the fact that he couldn’t remember a doctor’s appointment before he’d died.

“Well, that’s nice!”

She was looking into his ear with that flashlight-funnel-thing. It kind of tickled.

“I’m not any good at it. I keep falling asleep in the middle of the field.”

She tilted his head forward, looking at the dent in the back of his skull. The scientists all seemed fascinated by that hole, especially on the days when the reached in and found things like lego bricks. It was like his head was a grab-bag of fabulous prizes, kept stocked by none other than Davey Jones himself.

“Ah, yes. . . so the new narcolepsy meds aren’t helping, then?”

Blood pressure and heartbeat check. This one he’d never understood.

“No, not really. Why do you test my pulse, by the way? To make sure I’m still _dead?_ ”

She’d laughed at that, hadn’t answered his question, and then after a few more fiddly little tests he was done for the day. That was a little weird– usually they had some sort of brand-new somewhat traumatizing test they’d cooked up to try and ‘figure them out.’ Usually, but not always, and Chainey left the examination room with the air of a kid who hadn’t gotten any homework that day from an especially difficult subject.

Davey stumbled out of his room fifteen minutes later, a disney princess bandaid on his nose and a tongue depressor sticking out of his scowling mouth. Chainey couldn’t decide if it was adorable or frightening.

“Let’s go,” Davey had muttered, tongue depressor sea-sawing up and down between his gray-tinted lips.

The trouble had started when they’d stepped in the elevator and– halfway down the fifty zillion floors– the lights went out.

The elevator stopped moving.

Everything went quiet.

Chainey couldn’t see very well at the best of times– he needed glasses, but it always seemed like a bad time to get them– but now he could see literally _nothing_. He’d never understood exactly what was meant by the phrase ‘so dark you can’t see your hand in front of your face,’ but as he wiggled his fingers around so close they brushed his nose he realized the picture it had been trying to embody, which was “ _incredibly fucking dark_.”

There was a sound of rustling fabric, presumably caused by Davey moving so that he was no longer facing the wall. Chainey had no idea where that habit came from, but he’d say that it had been interesting to watch as Davey faced _anywhere_ but the elevator doors.

“Elevator broke down,” Chainey said, even though he expected– and was not disappointed– by the prompt reply of “No _shit_ , sherlock.”

They stood in silence for a few moments, then. . . Davey had started pacing, footfalls becoming ever more rapid as he crossed and recrossed the elevator.

Which brought them right about up to now.

“Davey? You’re muttering.”

And he was– there was a string of words not quite harsh enough to be entirely obscenities dribbling out of Davey’s mouth. Chainey could picture him running a hand through his hair, messing it up even more, as he turned in tighter and tighter circles. Davey didn’t seem to hear him, though, just kept right on stumbling over syllables.

“Oh God, oh God oh God oh God. . . no, breathe Jones. . . just. . . just breathe. . . you’re fine, it’s an elevator, you’re _fine_ , they’ll fix it in a minute, you are fucking _fine_. . . oh God, oh God oh God oh _God_. . .”

“Davey? Davey, _dude_ , snap out of it.”

There was a loud _bang_ from Chainey’s right, the sound of someone’s shoulder slamming into the metal wall of the elevator, then a few seconds later another _bang_ from the other side. Chainey’s first instinct was to get ahold of Davey, stop him from beating up the walls of an elevator that was just a _teensy_ bit unstable, but he couldn’t _see_ the other aware let alone get a grip on his arms. Even if he could, Davey would probably just throw him off.

Davey was breathing heavily now, sucking in lungfuls of air he didn’t need loudly enough that Chainey could _hear_ it. A word came to mind. Hyperventilating.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Davey yelled, and there were some more _slam_ s punctuated by the staccato beat of kicks landing solid against the stuck doors.

“Davey! What–” _What’s going on_ , was what Chainey was going to ask, because he was seriously _flipping the hell out_ right now due to sheer worry, but Davey cut him off.

“Chainey, get me _outta_ _here!_ ” Davey’s voice cracked slightly in the middle of his shout, and Chainey wondered if he was stressed. . . or crying.

Chainey swallowed. Hard. When he spoke, his tone was soft. “Davey. . . I. . .”

“Oh shut it, fag,” Davey muttered, voice muffled now. There was a soft _clang_ , like someone’s back hitting the metal wall, and then a _shoof_ as fabric slid down against that same metal. Chainey could see in his mind’s eye, Davey curled up at the base of the wall with his head buried in his hoodie-clad arms. “You don’t even get it.”

Chainey was about to reply when Davey exploded back out with “Damnit damnit _damnit!_ ” as he once again began pounding the wall with his fists.

Chainey followed the noise to Davey and flopped down to rest beside him. One of Davey’s flailing arms whacked him in the stomach, but he felt it less than the wall probably did. He reached around and caught at Davey’s sleeve, holding him still.

The banging stopped. For a moment, they were both frozen.

Then Davey choked out, “You know what it’s like to dig yourself out of you own grave, Chainey? Do you know what the first thing you see is when you wake up? A whole lotta fucking _nothing_ , just _blackness_ , and then you try and sit up and you can’t fucking _do_ anything and you’re thrashing around, slamming into the walls and you _cannot move_ , can’t _escape_ , and you’re just sitting there trapped in the darkness thinking _mother of god will somebody fucking_ save _me_ and–”

Chainey drew in a deep breath. He could imagine that, but he knew whatever it was he could conjure up in his mind it was just a _fraction_ of what Davey had felt. When he’d woken up under that trash heap, sure, he’d felt trapped, but he could _see_ and, more importantly, _move_. To wake up in your own coffin, a little claustrophobic box with six feet of dirt on top to help keep you trapped. . .

Chainey reached over and wrapped his slim arms around Davey’s shuddering shoulders, pulling him close. He could dully feel the soft, worn fabric of Davey’s hoodie under his fingers, feel the juddering shivers as the cold body leaning against his shook.

Davey’s head was resting against his shoulder. Tentatively, Chainey turned his head, leaning over towards the other Aware. He’d never seen Davey this vulnerable before and. . . it kinda scared him, to be honest.

He wanted Davey back.

Something brushed against Chainey’s lips, a wooden something– that stupid tongue depressor. Chainey wouldn’t be surprised if Davey had chewed clear through it in his fit of terror.

Chainey caught it between his teeth and pulled it gently out of Davey’s mouth, spitting it out so that it clattered against the floor of the elevator.

“What are you–” Davey asked, voice soft and slightly raspy so close to Chainey’s ear, but Chainey cut him off by closing his mouth over Davey’s.

Immediately, the lights turned back on.

The doors opened.

The two Awares jerked apart and stared up at the furiously blushing scientists that stood in front of the doorway.

“That was. . . supposed to be a psychological test,” one of them muttered sheepishly.

Davey brushed Chainey’s arm off his shoulder, stood abruptly, and slammed his fist down over the _close door_ button, shutting the scientists back out.

“Now, where were we?”


End file.
